...50 to go.
I keep waiting, expecting, hoping to get into a proper mood. A writey mood, I call it. I doubt that's really a word, but I don't care. I'm going to use it anyway. It fits, and shit.
Besides, every word in existence was coined at some point.
But anyway, the writey mood eludes me. It's a slippery bastard.
It's all such bullshit. I've been told a thousand lies. A million lies. I want the truth. But nobody knows the truth. Not even the liars.
The truth, it's also a slippery bastard.
I get so sick of people tiptoeing around me. Treating me with kid gloves. Beating around the goddamn bush. Fucking protecting my feelings.
It's all such bullshit.
My feelings are nothing but scar-tissue. They're fucking indestructible.
Even now, even after everything, I don't matter even to myself. I will not, can not, put myself first. Second, maybe, but not first. Not before her. Or them. Whatever.
It was a horrible idea. I wanted it so much, but I wanted it for the wrong reason. So now, now I get to be alone over the holidays. I get to feel sorry for myself.
All will be as it should be.
This is my fault. I'm the one who messed up. I'm the one who can't or won't face reality.